


Suddenly this defeat, this rain

by ealcynn



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Blood and Injury, Character Death, Episode Tag, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury, OC clone characters, Obi-Wan Needs a Hug, Post-Episode: s02e05 Landing at Point Rain, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2019-02-15 18:31:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13036962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ealcynn/pseuds/ealcynn
Summary: It has been said that no battle plan survives contact with the enemy. If Anakin had been present he would no doubt have pointed out that the old saying is even more accurate when the enemy are not where you expect them to be and are, in fact, the ones making all the contact.Obi-Wan Kenobi attempts to land his troops at Point Rain. Geonosis is not kind.





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this happened while I was supposed to working on Weeds. I've reached some kind of threshold with chapter 23 where I had to write something else or bust, so this was my outlet. I'm not sure how or why this exists other than I have probably seen Landing at Point Rain more times than is healthy.
> 
> The title is from the poem Rain by Jack Gilbert.

I have heard it said that no battle plan survives contact with the enemy. If Anakin had been present he would no doubt have pointed out that the old saying is even more accurate when the enemy are not where you expect them to be and are, in fact, the ones making all the contact.

The comm on my wrist crackles.

_“Cody, come in! Get the tanks down.”_

_“Copy that...”_

_“Move it! Move it!”_

_“Here they come! Bugs incoming!”_

Then I hear Cody’s voice yelling: _“General Kenobi, don’t land! The zone is hot!”_

Something screams past the nose of the gunship.

“But there’s nowhere else to go!” I argue back as I glance around at the men of the 212th. Unfamiliar in their dusty ARF desert camo, they are nevertheless as I know they will be, standing fast, firm, determined, while the air around them is bright with laser fire.  For all our strategies and plans it is once again the Geonosians who have taken us by surprise. They knew we were coming.

There’s no time to consider that now, or to formulate a new plan. Instead there’s the whine of Nantex starfighters, a nearby explosion, and the LAAT/i’s deck lurches sickeningly beneath us. The engines scream. I know then we’re not going to make it.

“We’re hit!” I shout into the commlink. It’s not much of a warning, but it all I can give. Cody will have to make do without us. “We're going down!”

The gunship pitches wildly from side to side. There’s smoke, stinging fire coming from somewhere. Alarms are blaring out from all sides. I snatch onto a strap above my head; around me troopers are desperately clinging on. Somewhere up front the pilot cries out and the dying ship drops sharply beneath my feet.

“Brace yourselves!”

There’s not much time, but I close my eyes, drawing the Force in tight and pushing forward, trying to build a cushion of energy around the burning cockpit to buffer the falling craft as we smash into the earth. It's a vain hope but I’ll save as many as I can.

If there had been an extra ten seconds it might have worked.

Instead, there’s a sudden blast against the port side of the hull, right where the defences I'm constructing are weakest, and the frail Force shield I’ve built shatters into ash at the impact. Then reality ruptures; we smash into the ground with a sound like the world ending. The cockpit is ripped away; the pilot and gunners disintegrate under the awful crush of metal and rock. The twenty-five unsecured men around me in the rear of the ship are slammed into the metal roof and hull at 200 kph as the gun-ship is scored across the planet’s surface. I fall away from the wall, strike the deck hard, and feel sixteen lives blink out in an instant.

Eventually, everything stops.

My awareness is limited only to fragments of reality. Pain is a primary sensation, followed by muffled, dull sounds of horror, stifled as if we were under water. Distant cries perhaps, and the shrill pulse of alarms ringing, echoing inside my head. There’s a stench of blood and piss, burnt plastic and acrid, toxic smoke. The ship has crashed but the danger isn’t over; fire is spreading out from the engine about to engulf the port side fuel cells. I am also aware that I am not the only one still alive; I can sense flickers around me, at least eight fragile lives. Blindly, clumsily, I swat at the flames with the Force and the fire is smothered out.

There is so much to do. I have to get up. Save the survivors. Contact Cody. I roll my head, and-

Darkness swallows me up and then recedes again, like a wave. I am aware of a voice across the hold whimpering in pain. It falls silent. I eventually realise that since I was last conscious, three more men have died. There are only five of us left now, little lights, glinting in the dark. With that awful realisation, the tide of unconsciousness rolls in once more.

When I come to again for the third time, it is to someone touching my face. _I’m awake_ , I try to reassure, but I can’t really seem to speak. There’s an awful lot of pain; dark and heavy and wrong in my abdomen, sharp and spiteful down my back and limbs. I breathe in the Force and expel the pain on the exhale. Better.

 I reach up to touch the hand resting on my cheek. It rolls away, too light, and that’s when I realise it is _just a hand_. I can feel where the limb has been torn from an elbow, wet and jagged and sticky with cooling blood. I lift the severed forearm off me and gently lay it down onto the deck at my side. Then I carefully roll the other way and my body heaves, expelling mouthfuls of blood and bile onto the grating. My head is buzzing; loud and jarring.

A voice nearby say; “Hear that? There’s someone else alive...”

A second voice, weak and breathless, calls out. “Hey! You okay, _vod_? Who is that?”

“Kenobi,” I answer. My voice catches, dry with the smoke.

“General!” The trooper’s voice is tight with a relief so intense that makes me feel dizzy.

“Cody?” I mumble, unable, for the first time, to distinguish the clone I am speaking with. It’s too dark in there to see much beyond odd shapes; the ship’s lights must have blown out with the impact. Or perhaps the hull is all but buried in the dry red dust that passes for earth on this wasteland planet.

“It’s Trapper, sir." The first voice corrects me out of the dark. "The commander went with the tanks.”

Of course. I remember the battle plan. The crash. This planet. _I cannot believe we’re back here again._

“Who else is still alive?” I ask, although I already know how many there are. I can sense another trooper has died while I was insensible and there are only four of us left still breathing in the wreckage. Four, out of twenty-eight.  There is no time to grieve.  “What are your injuries?”

 “Chest’s a mess. Leg too,” admits Trapper’s voice. “I’ve got Copper with me.”

 “That’s me, sir,” says the second voice, presumably belonging to Copper. It sounds slurred, unclear. “Can’t move that much. Think I’m pinned.”

“Digit’s alive too,” Trapper says, although Digit himself remains silent and Trapper doesn’t elaborate any further on the trooper’s condition. Instead, Trapper asks; “How badly are you injured, General?”

“I’ll live,” I say, without going into any further details. I click at the comm unit in my gauntlet, but it just sparks and hisses. Dead.

The two clones’ voices came from nearby. Either they have moved closer together, or, more likely, the starboard side of the craft where we had been standing had remained more intact during the crash. I should check their injuries, though I am not sanguine that there is much I can do for them. I drag my tingling arms under me and manage to push myself up unsteadily to sitting. Distantly I can feel my nerve-ends screaming at me but I bury their complaints down beneath the blanket of the Force. I stumble dizzily up to my feet and carefully draw my lightsaber.

“Close your eyes,” I warn the clones and switch the blade on. The light casts the garish scene into an unreal washed-out blue. It glints dully off matt armour plates, painting lifeless skin grey and glimmering from splashes of blood turned black and viscous. Black specks swarm before my vision.

“Do you know how long it was since we came down?” I grip the ‘saber tight, picking my careful way across the deck between the silent corpses. 

Trapper doesn’t sound sure.

“I passed out for a while, sir,” he hedges. “Maybe twenty, thirty minutes?”

He is leaning up against the sealed starboard hatch; the clone lying on the deck to his side must be Copper. Trapper seems more or less in one piece; there is no obvious blood or missing limbs at any rate. I raise the ‘saber and cast a quick glance over the other injured men. The trooper named Digit is lying half across Trapper’s legs. I can see his helmet and the skull inside have been crushed like eggshell. For all that Digit's chest is still rising and falling I know he is already dead. There’s no waking from an injury that severe, not on a battlefield, but at least he isn’t in any pain. Copper by comparison is still conscious, but the ‘saber light casting over his belly betrays a wide pool of blood, a glint of imbedded durasteel and, deep down, a coil of viscera.

I look around and spot medic's patches in amongst the scattered armour. I roll the dead medic gently over and rummage in his backpack for the med kit. It’s half spilled across the floor; the stimpaks and injectors are missing or crushed but there’s a stack of bacta gel and some pressure bandages that have survived intact.

I crawl back to the injured men and wedge the ‘saber handle into a nearby tear in the hull. The light flickers but it is enough to see by. I drop down gracelessly at Copper’s side, ripping the packaging off a bundle of dressings. The wound is awful, gaping messily around the impaling metal, but I have to do something. I pack the dressings into the hollow space in Copper’s abdomen, then clamp down hard, applying as much pressure as I can.

Copper groans, breathes hard for a second, and then slurs out, “...it’s better than it looks. I‘ve had worse hangovers.”

I smile at his joke, even though it's the last thing I want to do. When I glance over at Trapper, the trooper's expression is unreadable behind his helmet. He must know as well as I that whatever we do, Copper and Digit are not going to make it.

From our own awful circumstances it is clear that the enemy was fully prepared for our 'surprise' arrival. The Geonosians knew we were coming. _How_ they knew is a problem for another time because the fragments I had heard through the comms from the other units were no more reassuring – Cody taking heavy flak at the drop zone and no contact with Anakin, Rex or Ahsoka. Even if Ki-Adi-Mundi and Commander Jet made it through, they will all be pinned down at Point Rain until the 501st can arrive. I know that if any of the Republic's forces survive this day, someone will eventually search for our downed ship. But we were still several kliks from the landing point when we were hit, and it might take hours for Anakin to secure the drop zone sufficiently to send men out to find us. I’m far from certain that by then there will be any survivors left to find.

Copper emits another low groan of pain and mumbles something about his helmet. Trapper still has a firm grasp on Digit, so I let go of Copper’s wound for a moment and set about carefully sliding his helmet off his head. The version of the familiar face that is revealed is adorned with bold arrowhead tattoos down each cheekbone but underneath them his tanned skin is pale and wet with perspiration. I return to compressing the awful wound but under my palm I can feel Copper’s breath come in short little agonised pants. He doesn’t have long, and I cannot save him. Proper Force healing is a rare and precious gift, and it takes skill, teaching and years of practice. It has never been one of my particular talents and my skills are rudimentary at best. So no, I can’t save Copper, but I am not prepared to let another one of my men die gasping in agony either.

I place my palm onto the last intact part of the trooper’s abdomen and, after a moment to compose myself into something close to meditation, I let go of the barriers holding back my own pain and reach for the Force, diverting all the energy I have left. It takes an intense focus, but I slowly weave together cooling layers of peace and painlessness, and wrap what serenity I can muster about the dying man. Copper sighs and through the Force I see tight little tendrils of his pain relax away and dissolve into mist. 

I am ashamed to realise afterwards that I don’t notice when Copper dies. I am so wrapped up in the deep meditation I need for soothing the injured man in the Force, all while balancing on the knife-edge of my own pain that the moment of his passing escapes me. At least the other troopers can be assured that this brother at least was not suffering when he died, even if that I was all I could do for him.

Digit lingers on for another twenty minutes, perhaps, before his chest falls for the last time and his breaths quietly fade to silence. Then there is just two of us left.

Trapper keeps his hold of Digit’s hand. His own breathing doesn’t sound right now but I don’t think that is to do with any injury. I stay silent and buffer myself against the trooper’s grief.

Eventually Trapper clears his throat.

“General...you should go. We can’t be more than five kliks from the drop zone. I can’t walk on this leg but you could make it there. Send back some help.”

We both know what he is proposing. I am saddened though I am not surprised.

“No good, I’m afraid,” I dismiss the suggestion, gently. “I’m not going to leave you. Besides, I’m far from certain I could stand again now, in any case.” It’s not entirely obfuscation. Now I have drawn back from my meditation, I am aware of a deep shocky cold spreading out through me from my core, battling with the fire laying claim to my legs and spine. It’s possible I may have overreached myself. I lean back against the hull, trying to breathe slowly, letting the dizziness and the pain pass into the Force. My hands too are numb and tingly and those black specks of unconsciousness are back, flickering across my sight.

I reclaim my lightsaber and turn it off, plunging us back into the reeking, stifling gloom, surrounded by the silent dead. I clip the ‘saber back to my belt, where it belongs.

“Better save the power cell,” I tell Trapper.

“Of course, sir,” the trooper says.

We sit in silence in the hot, stinking dark and wait. For rescue or for death.

My consciousness is on the verge of drifting away when I realise I can hear cannon fire. It’s far off, very far. Several kliks at least, but there is a fierce fight going on somewhere out there. My heart swells with pride. Cody and Ki-Adi are holding on to Point Rain as long as they can.

After a while, I pick out more sounds; ATTEs, proton cannons and blaster fire. Some of it is growing louder and closer, as if something is drawing the fight towards the downed ship. There are three loud shots close by and a couple of metallic thuds which echo through the hull. At my side, I feel Trapper go tense and I know what the clone is thinking. With a fight as heavy as the one we can hear, it is very unlikely that troopers could be spared for a rescue mission. It is far more probable that the approaching sounds are a droid squadron sent to slaughter any survivors of the crash, or some opportunistic Geonosians come to strip the gunship for every valuable scrap and paw over the dead. My hand finds my ‘saber hilt.

Two more shots impact somewhere nearby and then we catch the tail end of a conversation.

 _“_ _...the fun part. Getting back to the square is the fun part.”_

The accent is Mando’a, the intonation and gruff irritability is even more recognisable. These are no Geonosians.

There is a screech of metal, a pained graunching sound, and the buckled hatch door is dragged open. Light burns into the gloomy wreck and we shield our eyes. Two clones are silhouetted against the harsh desert light. Through the glare I can pick out ARF armour with highlights of 212th yellow, and as one trooper turns his head I see a flash of blue glinting on his helmet. It's a little painting of a smiling Twi’lek child.

“Waxer. Boil,” I greet them, relief and disbelief flooding through me. “Am I glad to see you.”

The troopers pause for a moment, seemingly stunned at the devastation inside the ship.

“Trapper and I are the only ones still alive.” I explain. There is little point in sugar-coating the truth, though I understand their dismay. No doubt they had hoped for far fewer casualties. If things were as hard pressed for the besieged troops as they sounded, Waxer and Boil returning to the rendezvous point with a squadron of clones plus a Jedi Master would have been a welcome reinforcement. Instead they are getting only two more casualties. 

Boil bustles into the ship, unflinchingly passing the bodies of his comrades to reach us.

“Good to see you, sir,” the trooper says. I just nod, tiredly. Waxer goes over to Trapper while Boil crouches down in front of me. I shift a little, preparing myself to move, and hold my arm out to Boil. The clone takes the hint and settles my arm down over his shoulders. Then, without further warning, he hauls me up.

The moment I move pain erupts through me like I’m being electrocuted; tongues of fire burn along my spine and down my legs and steal the very air from my lungs. For a long moment all I can do is gasp though my gritted teeth and fight every instinct that is screaming at me to _stop moving!_ It takes several moments but I claw back my control and force the pain down. As my mind clears, I realise I'm not actually standing yet; all my weight is still hanging from my one arm around Boil’s shoulders. I hear that Waxer is speaking; I take in something about Cody and _bugs on the move_ , but by the time I’ve forced my treacherous legs to hold me, I’ve missed the briefing. I open my eyes just in time to see Waxer and Boil exchange a glance but I’m too weary to figure out its meaning.

 “Come on,” says Boil. “Gotta get you two out of here.”

The two clones drag us out into the arid, red heat of the Geonosian sun. The planet reeks of fumes, chemicals and hot metal but it is sweet perfume after the stench inside the crashed ship; an overpowering of death and excrement and cooked meat. We pause for a moment, breathing in the fresher air, as Waxer hands around his water canteen. I manage to grasp it on the second attempt, gratefully. After a swallow of hot, dusty water, I pass the canister on and turn my head towards the far-off flashes of light where the distant landing zone is under fire.

“How far off are we?” I ask.

“Only about five kliks, sir,” Boil says. The little blue Numa on his helmet flashes and winks at me in the sun. “But it’s no stroll in the park, not in flak that heavy. Took us nearly thirty minutes to get over here. It’ll be twice that getting back, I guess.”

I nod; it’s a fair estimate. I haven’t really been able to assess Trapper’s injuries properly, but it’s clear neither of us are in a fit state to sprint any distance through a warzone.

“What’s the situation? Has General Skywalker arrived yet?”

“Not when we left, sir.” Waxer shook his head. “Captain Rex had comm’d through to say they’d been forced down on the far side of the fortress. They’ll have to fight their way over.”

“And General Mundi?”

“He never made it either, sir, and neither did any of his troops. They lost contact just after you crashed.”

_Kriff it._

“So Cody is holding the landing zone alone?”

I’m concerned, of course, but it doesn’t really surprise me that of the four generals, five commanders and an admiral involved in the Second Battle of Geonosis, only Commander Cody has managed to follow the battle plan through with precision. In a universe of reckless ingenuities perpetrated by the likes of Anakin, Ahsoka, Rex and, if I am being brutally honest, also myself, Cody’s ability to follow his orders to the letter is a gift.

Boil comes back to my side and we set off towards the distant sounds of the battle. For a while all my attention is occupied by controlling my pain and forcing my recalcitrant legs into some semblance of motion. I distract myself by focusing on the distant horizon. It can only be mid morning but already the punishing sun is beating down on the scorched, tainted dustbowl we have landed in. Five kliks would seem to be nothing through macrobinoculars, but even to my Force-assisted vision both the distance and the rising heat waves make the scene distorted and uncertain; the far-off tanks are dark shadows, the plasma fire little more than sparks of lightning. The sound carries better; violent, unrelenting noise.

I am not optimistic about our chances of retaking the planet. The attack plan had gone wrong from the very start, but now I know Ki-Adi has not made it either....Well, my gunship had set off several minutes before both Anakin and Mundi, and the younger knight had been shot down first. If my gunship was five kliks off the landing zone, Anakin could have come down two or three times that distance, Master Mundi no closer. If any of them have survived  it will likely take them several hours on foot to reach the landing zone. Even allowing for the time it took for Waxer and Boil to find us, and the doubtless slower pace we will make back to the landing zone, we cannot expect reinforcements at the landing point for two more hours at least. The chances of getting air support are next to negligible, even if we can still get comm signal to Admiral Yularen.

It seems that the Second Battle of Geonosis is going to end in an ignominious rout. At worst it may end in slaughter.

When Trapper’s breathing gets noisy and pain-filled, we stop for a rest on a low rocky outcrop. We are, perhaps, around halfway to the drop zone. The injured clone sinks to the floor as soon as we stop, coughing and hunched. He needs medical treatment as soon as possible. For now he will have to make do with more sips of water and a ration bar out of Waxer’s belt. I resist the troopers’ attempts to make me sit down too, despite my exhaustion and the growing torment of Boil’s gauntlet pressed against my back. It’s becoming fairly clear that I have done some significant damage to my spine in the crash – perhaps a cracked vertebra. I shouldn’t be moving at all, let alone returning into an active combat situation with the intention to fight. But I have no choice. The least I can do is avoid any further stress on the injury that repeatedly sitting and standing would cause. Now I am on my feet, I shall stay on them.

I compromise somewhat by leaning against Boil and resting my eyes. When I look up again, Waxer has got Trapper back up to his feet and the three clones are exchanging some meaningful glances. I’m never certain how my men manage to communicate so effectively non-verbally through full-face helmets, but they seem to manage somehow. I huff a sigh.

“Are we ready to continue?”

We make slow but steady pace and are five hundred metres from the landing zone when we are spotted by the enemy. I have had my gaze fixed on the distant Republic tanks; Cody has arranged them into a ring, like a fort, and I can see white shapes darting about the area using the tanks and landed gunships as cover. The air is thick with blaster fire. Off to the right and over our heads, there is suddenly a squeal of engines and a lone starfighter loops around and dives back towards us, a rain of plasma smiting the ground around.

“Run!” yells Waxer, though that is more or less impossible at this point, even with Boil all but dragging me. I bolster my failing legs with the Force and push myself on, feeling Waxer and Trapper just behind. I don’t dare fail now; I know as soon as I fall the others will refuse to leave my side and then we’ll all die. A plasma shot sears into the sand right at Waxer’s feet and then, suddenly, a green bolt blasts the Geonosian fighter out of the air and sends it spinning into a far-off stand dune. The saving shot came from a laser-cannon turret on one of the landed LAATs in the defensive ring. Someone is laying down cover fire.

We are 250m away and now fully out in the open when two more starfighters scream towards us and now the circling Geonosian speeders start shooting too. There’s no time to find a defensive position. We have got to get within that ring, and the bugs seem just as anxious to stop us. I move to grab my ‘saber, intent on deflecting any shots that come our way, but I am forced to discard the thought – my left arm doesn’t seem to be working. We will just have to run for it and hope Cody is covering us. Just when things couldn’t get worse, I recognise the low ominous rumble of the enemy's Armoured Assault Tanks moving up the dunes behind us; if we make it to the drop zone it’ll be by a thread.

Cannon and laser fire light up the air around, thick with shouts and explosions and flying rock and the stench of burnt hot metal. We are one hundred metres away. I can see Cody by one of the tanks now, shooting bugs out of the sky. A shout and a gesture from the commander and two clones are sprinting forward, laying down a thick spray of cover fire; they pass my little group and fall in behind us. Fifty metres and we are somehow still moving, still alive. Ten metres and we pass under the legs of an AT-TE and suddenly everything goes quiet. The battle is still raging behind us but it’s holding at the tank line. It’s like we’ve entered a tiny soap-bubble of serenity.

Boil makes a beeline for a nearby stack of crates. It’s probably an ammo depot, but I find I don’t really care what they are for as long as I get to sit down in their shade and not move for a few minutes.

Commander Cody is instantly there and I can see for all his calm control that he’s tense, on edge.

“Are you injured, general?” he asks as Boil drags me along. I sense, rather than see, Waxer making some frantic hand gestures behind my back to Cody. As usual I pretend not to notice and reply; “No, nothing too serious,” in order to stem Waxer’s no-doubt panicky communication. It’s true, from a certain point of view. If the internal bleeding was going to kill me, it would have done it by now. I can control most of the symptoms of shock through meditation and the Force. And yes, the injury to my back might be a little more serious but there’s nothing I or anyone else can do about it trapped in the middle of a warzone. I need my men focused on the task in hand.

 “What's the situation here?” I ask but then once again I take in only the first few words of the reply before Boil is unfolding my arm and lowering me to the ground. The curvature of my spine as I bend causes everything to be washed away again in an all-consuming haze of pain. I end up seated on the floor, just staring dumbly at Cody while I try to breathe. I can see the commander is still speaking from the small movements of his helmet but the words are drowned out by the pounding of blood in my ears.

I manage to drag myself back to alertness as Cody is saying “...knew our every move." Waxer and Trapper have disappeared off somewhere, Boil is still kneeling at my side and another clone is jogging over to join us.  He’s got medic’s patches on his helmet and he’s holding a med kit. It hadn’t really occurred to me before how rough I probably look, but the fact that the medic immediately pulls out a hypo-injector first really ought to be a clue. I obediently turn my neck as the medic leans in and both Cody and Boil project little flurries of disbelief and concern at my lack of objection to the pain relief. I am too exhausted.

The analgesics hit my bloodstream and within seconds cooling tranquillity flows through me. "Well,” I hear myself say, distantly. “I'm sure General Skywalker and General Mundi will make it to our position. We just have to make sure we're still here when they arrive."

Then, I pass out.

 

* * *

 

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Landing at Point Rain. For me, it was the first episode of CW that really made me realise this was something special. For all its target age range the writing fully acknowledged it was telling a war story, with more than a few hints of the kind of starkness and brutality that must entail. I've tried to stay as true to the dialogue and visuals of the episode as possible, though some of the timings have had to be altered to make them more realistic.
> 
> First person/present tense is not a point of view I actually like much, and I tried endlessly to wrestle the prose into something else, just for it to spring back like elastic. In the end I let it have its way, even though I've spent so long in Ben's head that finding my way back to Obi-Wan was not easy.
> 
> Part 2 coming soon. As ever, thank you for reading, and please let me know if you spot any typos.


	2. Part 2

I do not think I have been insensible for long. Precious little has changed except Cody is now standing some distance away with his back to me, barking out orders to a huddle of troopers and gesturing to the outer perimeter. The sound of explosions and gunfire is unrelenting; a smothering pressure of sound. Boil is still crouched on my right and the medic, who I recall bears the intriguing name of Folly, is on my left. The two are conversing in rapid-fire Mando’a. I think I hear the phrase “ _...stubborn, self-sacrificing bastard...”_ before the clones notice I am awake and swiftly shut up.

“Sir! He’s awake again,” Boil shouts in Cody’s direction, while Folly leans in.

“General. Please try and stay with us. Can you tell me how are you feeling?”

I shift a little, feeling the pain burn beneath the smothering coolness of the drugs. It is certainly more manageable, but I can still feel pulses of tension racing through the nerves in my back. I would very much like to lie down, but then again, I really should avoid any further movement if possible.

Instead of giving an answer, I ask; “How is Trapper?”

“Waxer and Doghouse are seeing to him,” says Folly, but he isn't perturbed. “General, I need to know what your injuries are. I’m concerned you have some internal bleeding and you just passed out, twice.”

Twice? I only recall the once. Before I can get a clarification, I am distracted by a tapping motion on my chest and look down. My belt and obi have gone and the tabards and tunics pushed aside up to the gorget armour plate. When did that happen? Even in the red light of the Geonosian day, my chest and lower abdomen are clearly black and swollen with bruising. Folly is palpating across my stomach with a firm hand. It hurts, and I retch a little, tasting blood.

“Pulse’s still fast and weak,” says Boil and I see the clone has stripped off his glove and mine, and has his fingers pressed to my wrist. I can barely feel it through the tingling.

“Definitely internal bleeding. I can’t find any other major injuries,” Folly replies, slapping a handful of bacta paste and about three dressings over my stomach. Boil, in the meantime, is pushing a flask of rehydrating fluid into my free hand and stares at me firmly until I drink it all. Once I’ve choked it down, Folly plucks the empty flask out of my hand and then sets about retying my tunics when I don’t make any move to attend to my own wardrobe. “No sign of broken bones, other than possible cracked ribs. Do you remember if you hit your head at all, sir? Trapper said you were unconscious.”

“My head? No, I don’t think so.”

“Okay,” says Folly, before glancing to Boil. “Help me get him lying down.”

Boil takes hold of my shoulder, ready to roll me forward away from the crates. Visceral panic at the thought of the movement makes my objection somewhat louder than I intend.

“No, wait...”

“Sir,” says Folly, reproachfully, “I know you want to keep an eye on what’s happening but you’ll be more comfortable lying down and it’ll be easier for me to monitor y-“

“I think I have hurt my back,” I am forced to confess.

The clones stop and stare at me.

“Kriff,” swears Boil.

“Hurt your back,” Folly repeats. “Are we talking bruising here or...?”

“I suspect...a fracture.”

The medic pauses. “Loss of sensation? Numbness?”

“Both,” I admit and sigh. Might as well make a full confession of it, now we are here. “Legs are numb and there are pins-and-needles in my hands.”

Boil produces a string of filthy swearwords that would shock a Corellian spice freighter. Using his standard sixth sense for trouble, Cody appears.

“As you were, trooper. Get over there and support Shank on the north side.”

“Sir, yes sir,” Boil lays my wrist down carefully, grabs his rifle, casts me one last look and then vanishes.

“General,” Cody says, crouching down.

“Cody, how are the defences?”

“Not good,” the commander quickly summarises. “We already had some casualties but now we’re losing a trooper every fifteen minutes. They’re hitting us hard to the north, though the AATs are holding back. Probably a diversion.”

“Almost certainly,” I agree. “We’ll have to draw them out. Cease firing two of the tank turrets on the west side; make it look like they are crippled. When they bring in the main force, they’ll choose to strike there where it seems weakest. Have the men ready to surprise them.”

“Why the west side, sir?”

“Because there’s a ridge to the south and I’m sure they’ll be intending to use it for cover if they can. If we can make them attack us to the west they’ll have to come out into the open ground where they’re more vulnerable.”

“Good plan, General.”

“Anything from Mundi or Skywalker?”

“We heard from Rex about thirty minutes ago. They were still trapped on the far side of the fortress. Nothing since then, I’m afraid.”

“Can you get me through to Admiral Yularen?”

“Sorry, General. We think all comms are down.”

I sigh. _Of course._

“Sir,” Cody said, glancing at Folly and then clearly looking me over. “Diversion or not, if we can’t hold the north side we’re going to be overrun. Are you fit enough to fight, sir? We could really use a Jedi right about now."

“Absolutely not,” Folly interrupts before I can speak.

Cody bypasses my answer and looks straight to the medic. “Sitrep?”

“Internal abdominal bleeding,” Folly recites. “Possible organ trauma, hypovolemic shock and, the icing on the cake, suspected spinal cord injury.”

Cody doesn’t miss a beat. “Can the General be moved?”

“Not unless it’s for a med-evac.”

“Excuse me, sergeant, but I am not dead yet,” I cut in, slightly irritated, and look to my commander. “And despite Folly's generous estimations I have already walked the five kliks here from the crash site without incident. I will be perfectly fine.”

“I’ve also been pinching your foot for the past two minutes, sir,” Folly points out. “You can’t feel it at all, can you?”

I don’t answer, glancing at his grasp on my exposed foot in surprise. I didn’t even notice him taking my boot off.

“To avoid any more severe nerve damage the General needs to be immobilised as soon as possible,” Folly ignores me and turns back to Cody. “But I don’t have a spinal-board or any equipment here.

“Can you do anything to heal or stabilise the fracture with the Force, sir?” Cody asks me.

Compared to the general populous, the clones are both more knowledgeable and less sceptical about the Force. More knowledgeable in that they have witnessed firsthand as Force-users have crushed droids, halted crashing ships and lifted enormous loads; things most citizens of the Republic would consider little more than the stuff of legend. But in witnessing such events I have found they tend to forget what our limitations are. True, the clones have seen more Jedi bleeding, turning and dying than any other living beings in the last thousand years. But that doesn’t stop them believing in the Force, believing in wonders, hoping for one last miracle every time. Sometimes we can provide one. All too often we can’t.

“Perhaps,” I say, but at that moment there is a distant explosion and a cry of _“Medic!”_ from across the square. I tense, instincts at war, trying to both hold me still and drive me up onto my feet.

“Stay there, General. Don’t move!” Cody orders and both he and the medic are gone.

I stay where I am and tilt my head back, staring up at the sky. There’s a dark column of smoke rising into the hazy sky from over my left shoulder, but I can see nothing more of the battle. One of the tanks is probably on fire.

My obi, belt and gloves are sitting in a pile to my left from where the medic half undressed me earlier to check my injuries. I manage to drag the items over without moving too much. It seems increasingly likely that we are not going to make it out of this and I therefore intend to die looking like a Jedi even if I can’t fight like one. I carefully sort my tunics, fix the obi and belt around my waist - not too tight - and straighten my tabards. Irritatingly, my left boot that Folly removed to check my nerve responses is sitting in the dust just out of my reach.  I don’t bother calling it over with the Force; I won’t be able to bend enough to put it on anyway. One boot will have to do.

With blaster fire and explosions filling the air around me there is nothing else to do but work on doing what I can for my own hurts with the Force as Cody suggested. Like I said, Force healing is not one of my natural talents. Healing or even just immobilising a fracture is the sort of delicate Force manipulation that an apprentice Jedi healer might usually only attempt after months of practise and research, and hours of meditation in the calm quiet of the temple. Not on oneself in a few minutes while sitting in the line of enemy fire. Fortunately, it has been said I do my best work under pressure. Besides, the worst that can happen is that I end up paralysing myself; if we aren’t all dead within the next hour anyway I shall be quite surprised.

I close my eyes and concentrate on weaving the Force around me. I don’t have the skill to repair the fractured vertebra even if I knew precisely the nature of the damage and where it lay, and I’m too tired for the fine control needed to splint it. Instead I have to settle for slapping rough layers of Force energy around my back and abdomen, drawing them in firmly like a rudimentary brace. It’s not unlike the skill to control pain but it will take a great deal more concentration to hold it in place over a length of time. I sink into a light mediation to work on reinforcing the make-shift splint I’ve cobbled together. I only realise I have drifted more deeply from consciousness when an explosion nearby jolts me out of my trance.

I am up on one knee before I can register that I’ve moved. Someone at my side yells “General!” and I feel a hand on my shoulder. Debris and rocks are falling from the sky and an unfortunate trooper who was blasted up into the air by the detonation smashes into the ground all but ten metres from us.  I stare at his body dazedly while other clones sprint past, the unrelenting blaster fire on all sides following the echo of the cannon blast. Two more blasts rock the ground and then Waxer is easing me back once more behind the shelter of the ammo crates.

“What happened?” I gasp out as Waxer helps me sit back, carefully. The pain is rather tremendous but at least it feels as if my force splint has worked. I certainly can’t bend very well so I only hope it is holding whatever spinal damage there is immobilised too.

“The bugs attacked to the west, General, just like you said,” the trooper explains, kneeling. “’Cept two of our AT-TEs actually got knocked out for real and they brought sonic cannons to the party.”

A dozen Geonosians are swooping low over our heads, firing wildly at the backs of the clones defending the LAATs. Waxer shoots two down and then ducks low again at my side. The pain ignited by my ill-advised movement is slowly ebbing and my hand unclenches a little.

“The commander sent me to check you were all right,” Waxer tells me, holding out a canteen. I drink two sips and pass it back. Water will be another scarce resource if we end up stranded here for long.

“I’m still here,” I answer, reassured to hear Commander Cody is still alive too. But I know what Waxer’s instructions truly mean – he has been sent to be my bodyguard. I feel utterly useless. “Pass me my boot, would you? Then find me a blaster.”

“Sorry, sir. None to spare.”

The clone does at least help me ram the boot back onto my foot.

A second wave of bugs fly over and suddenly there’s another loud blast close by and a hail of debris and dust. We cower behind our meagre cover.

“Kark it,” Waxer coughs. “They hit the other ammo crates.”

A dozen crates have been blasted across the enclosed area, metres from where we sit. It could so easily have been us.

 “Any word from our reinforcements?” I ask, coughing. The air is thick with acrid smoke; several of our vehicles must be burning now.

“None, sir,” Waxer says apologetically. “I don’t think we-”

There is another explosion, but unlike those of the last few moments, this one is far, far off and far more massive. I feel the shockwave first, vibrating through the ground under me and then a long drawn-out rumble, like far-off thunder or the collapse of some monstrous structure. I only know one person capable of producing destruction on that level.

“What the kriff was that?” Waxer says, staring off to the east. He looks concerned but the sound brings me hope.

“That, Waxer, is the sound of our reinforcements. Things quite often seem to blow up in the vicinity of General Skywalker. No doubt he’s on his way."

 

* * *

 

We hold out for perhaps another thirty minutes. It takes just one link in the chain to break before Cody’s long-held defences crumble like sand. A Geonosian tank gets close enough to one of the LAAT/i on the north side of the ring and destroys both gun turrets in a plume of smoke. The men inside scramble out of the hold they were using for cover as the unopposed AAT strafes the inside of the ship with fire. The men back off across the square, firing, but then a tank to the south falls too and Cody is yelling;

“Retreat! Go! Go!”

I hear the shouts on all sides and then what’s left of the 212th start to tumble out of the tanks on the perimeter and fall back towards the centre. The AATs are roaring in now and I can hear the skitter of Geonosian wings as they swarm towards our abandoned defences.

“Go, go!”

“Every shot counts!”

“Give it all you got!

Waxer is kneeling a few metres in front of me at the edge of the crates, firing careful aimed blasts into the oncoming enemy. Cody is just ahead with at least five more troopers but they are all being steadily forced back to my position under the hail of fire.

Our time has run out.

I grit my teeth, drag my legs under me and force myself up. I have to scramble ungainly at the crates for a moment but I find a hold and haul myself up to my feet. Fire is racing through my back; I am short of breath and dizzy and I can barely stand, but I’ll be damned if I will let my men die defending me while I sit helpless. I am a Jedi.

I draw in two deep breaths, brace myself against the crates and ignite my ‘saber.

Let them come.

 Then I hear it. Engines. Yes, definitely engines, and not Geonosian ones either. I pause in surprise. The sounds get louder and louder, and then a suddenly, impossibly, a Y-wing comes howling down out of the sky, then a second. Then a third.

“Reinforcements!” I hear a trooper, yelling. “The reinforcements have arrived!”

The lead ship swoops down so low over the landing zone that the ground shakes; I think I feel a blast of heat on my skin. Then the ship is past us and the sky is torn by gunfire; two enemy AATs explode in the first moment and then the Y-wings wheel around for a second run. The Geonosians are screaming and fleeing back under the airstrike and blaster fire. All about me the survivors of the 212th are cheering and punching the air.

“Go, go, go, go! Move it! Move it!”

A number of troopers sprint past me and then I hear someone across the square shout: “Skywalker! It’s General Skywalker!”

“The five-oh-first!” shouts another.

“Where have you been, you bastards?!” yells a third, with delight.

We are, against all odds, saved.

I deactivate my ‘saber. I know there is more for me to do. I should help rout the Geonosians. Check on the wounded. Debrief Anakin and Cody, see if Ahsoka is all right, find out if Trapper and Ki-Adi survived... But my body suddenly decides it has had quite enough of my nonsense and folds up on itself. My grip on the crates is the only thing that controls my decent enough that it is a sit and not a collapse. I am lightheaded and chilled to the bone, and I realise that holding the spinal splint in place has drawn my attention away from control of the internal bleed again. _Damn._ I close my eyes and concentrate on holding the pain in check and trying to draw in the acrid, smoky air in short, shallow breaths. We are saved and I suppose I can afford to rest, just for a moment.

I hear voices, more men running in from the south. Shouts of: _“_ _Up to the front! Come on! There they are... Move it, move it!”_ and then a different voice, right at my side, says:

“Master Kenobi?”

I open my eyes and there is Ahsoka. She’s dusty and tired and her face pinched with worry, but she’s whole and alive. I can’t help but smile in my relief, resting my palm on her shoulder. My Grand-padawan. 

The comfort is brief though, and I pull my hand away before she can feel the tremor.

I glance past her as I hear more footsteps. It is Anakin, with Ki-Adi-Mundi at his side. Mundi is holding himself a little stiffly; it is likely that he too is injured, but Anakin seems as indestructible as always. My former padawan pauses as he looks me over and I watch relief and fear chase each other across his face. The fact I am sitting here, well behind the front lines with my ‘saber sheathed will no doubt be the reason for the latter. I am too tired to worry about it now.

“What happened to you?” He asks.

“I might ask you the same question,” I retort, and then look to Ki-Adi.

“Master Mundi,” I greet him, respectfully. “I am pleased to see you in one piece.”

“Likewise, Kenobi,” the Cerean answers, quietly. “We were concerned when we could not raise you on comms.”

“I do hope Skywalker didn’t slow you down.” I return, ignoring the subtle prompt to disclose my own condition.

“What!?” Anakin sputters in mock outrage, taking the bait. “Ahsoka and I just survived a crash, fought our way here through twenty kliks of hostile territory...”

“...and blew up a fortress!” adds Ahsoka, brightly.

“...and blew up a massive fortress, and we still managed to arrive in time to save your skin, Master.”

“It might not have needed saving if you had managed to land your ship rather than crash it in the first place,” I point out. My words might sound callous, even cruel, to anyone listening in to our conversation but it is all part of the way Anakin and I communicate. This teasing, mocking repartee that we throw at each other like sniper fire keeps us going day to day through this hell of war. It is, in fact, the only way we really communicate at all anymore.

 Anakin huffs. “That wasn’t my fault, Master! Besides, we only got shot down a little bit. What’s your excuse?”

My smile falters before I can stop it. I see warm corpses and smell again the stench of burned skin. I manage not to retch.

 “We...got shot down a bit more, as it happens.”

Anakin pauses, clearly thrown off balance by my sudden veer towards painful honesty. He’s saved having to answer when Rex reappears at his side. He and Cody have been holding quick, low debate between themselves. The Geonosians were clearly decimated by the airstrike, but those that remain are selling their lives dearly. Cody glances at me but no words at needed; I nod my approval immediately and he takes off in the direction of the fighting. Rex draws Anakin’s attention with a practiced air.

“Sir...”

Something else explodes beyond the ring of tanks.

“Yes, of course, Rex,” Anakin says, and then looks to Ahsoka. “Come on. There’s still plenty of bugs that need seeing to.”

“Way ahead of you, Master,” says Ahsoka, leaping to her feet and unclipping her ‘saber. “Let’s go, Rexie.”

She and the captain set off at a run, following Cody towards the worst of the fighting.

“Come on, old man,” Anakin says, holding out his hand as if to pull me to my feet. He knows full well it would be highly unlikely on any normal day for me to rest before I am certain that our position is secure.

“You go on ahead, Anakin” I say, too tired to even put on much of a pretence. “I’ll follow along in a bit.”

Anakin gives me a sharp, calculating look, seeking out a visible explanation for my reticence. I suspect I am pale and dirty and I can certainly feel blood crusting on scratches on my face, but I am holding the tremors in check and my other injuries are not visible to the eye.

“Obi-Wan...” Anakin starts but Ki-Adi comes to my rescue.

“Go, Skywalker,” he says. “I will stay with Master Kenobi. We need to strategise. You can send word if you need our assistance.”

“Sure,” Anakin mutters, managing to insinuate in one syllable that the whole planet would have to be at risk of imminent detonation before he would be asking anyone for help. He speeds off after his padawan. The boy is a bright flare of energy, even now, hours into this gruelling campaign. The war is sucking the life out of me like a parasite, I feel it every day, but somehow the conflict just makes Anakin burn all the brighter.

“Kenobi?”

I realise my eyes have closed of their own accord. Ki-Adi Mundi is kneeling at my side, watching me carefully.

“I’m all right,” I mumble, uncomfortable under the revered master’s intense gaze.

“You do not look all right. I shall fetch a medic,” he offers, making to stand.

"I promise you, there is no need,” I argue, dragging back my control. “I have already been checked over. Besides, there are more seriously wounded in need of attention. What of your own injuries...?”

“Some broken ribs,” the Cerean Jedi confirms. “I will seek medical attention when our task is complete and the shield generator is down.”

I nod, trusting him implicitly to know his limits. “Then let’s focus on that. I have come up with a new strategy...”

Ki-Adi sits down at my side. “Let me hear it.”

By the time Anakin, Ahsoka and the troopers have the drop zone fully secured, Mundi and I have hammered out our plan of attack for the final stage of Phase One - taking out the shield protecting the droid factories. Master Unduli is then poised to bring in her troops and destroy the factories themselves, but not until the shield is destroyed. The campaign to retake the planet is resting on us, and yes, we do need to move quickly, but there is still time, and we must regroup first. 

Cody and Jet reappear first at the head of a gaggle of men returning from the battlefield. They quickly cross over to the impromptu command centre that my stack of crates have apparently become designated, and I let the commanders know we will take two hours to regroup before pressing on. Ki-Adi and Jet head off to check on the rest of the 21st Novas. I am drawing together enough energy to do the same for the 212th when Cody halts me before I can start to move.

“I’ll handle it, sir,” he says, gently, and before I can say anything he disappears off towards the waiting troopers. I have seldom been more grateful for Cody than I am at that moment.  With my commander on the case I am confident that by the time the two hours are up the fires will be out, all troopers will be accounted for, the wounded will be being seen to, the men will be fed, repairs underway and our surviving resources will be tallied up, all with Cody’s unflappable efficiency. Like I said, the man is a gift; one I certainly don’t deserve.

I have only been alone a few minutes when Waxer and Boil, who seem to have been assigned as my personal minders, hare over to check that I am still breathing. Boil is clutching a med pack and has apparently been instructed by Folly to check on my condition.

“He and Coric are busy with some of the other men right now,” Waxer says, apologetically.

“How many injured are there? Any word on Trapper?” I ask as Boil checks my vitals and, after frowning at my blood pressure, quickly and efficiently attaches a IV field pump to my inner arm at the gap between the armour plates, cinching the straps tight. There is a hum as the device starts, a faint scratch, and then I sense, rather than feel, the neutral transfusion fluid pumping into my veins.

“Trapper’s fine,” Waxer answers while Boil works. “We’re not sure how many men we lost yet.”

“You need another bacta shot, sir,” Boil interrupts, gruffly. "Medic’s orders.”

I sigh, but turn my head, letting the trooper press the injector gently to my neck. Boil is proving to be surprisingly proficient in battlefield first aid. I wonder if he is considering requesting specialist training and reassignment. I would not have predicted it, given his usual gruff temperament, but I have witnessed for myself the man’s caring side on Ryloth.

Waxer is, much to my chagrin, busy unfolding a foil blanket over my legs when I see Anakin returning from the battlefield with his padawan. I object to the blanket on principle – it would, in fact, probably help with the tremors and persistent cold that the shock has gifted me with - but the two troopers stick to their metaphorical guns there too. The blanket is, apparently, also medic’s orders and therefore trumps any authority I may have previously imagined I possessed as High General of the Grand Army of the Republic. So I am told.

Anakin and Ahsoka stride over and I note they are two of the last to re-enter the drop zone. They look tired, but satisfied; I suspect they were rounding up the last stragglers of the Geonosian attack force out in the dunes.

“Well, _they’re_ not coming back,” Ahsoka is saying as they approach. “Skyguy, I’m starving, can we eat before we go blow up a factory? Please?” And although the question was aimed at her master, I note she looks to me for her answer.

“We redeploy in one hour forty,” I inform her, with a faint smile.

“Ace,” she grins. “I’ll grab some food. Bring you back something?”

I decline, but Anakin says, “Yeah, pinch us a couple of meal packs. And see if you can find Rex. Oh, and let Besh know I’m on my way to see what a mess his mechanics have made of the tank repairs.”

Ahsoka rolls her eyes. “They’ve only been off the battlefield two minutes, Master. At least give them the chance to actually make some progress before you wade in and redo all their hard work yourself.”

She disappears out of my sight behind the crates. Waxer and Boil offer Anakin quick salute, inform me they will be back in a few minutes ( _“medic’s orders”_ ) and then they too head off on their next task.

“All right,” Anakin says, stepping up to me and folding his arms. “Spill.”

Craning my neck to look up at him from this angle sends shooting pains down my neck, so I drop my chin and just stare across at some troopers across the square smothering the flames on a burning AT-TE.

“I don’t know what you’re...” I start, but Anakin points to the foil blanket and then taps his boot against the IV pump not quite hidden beneath it.

“If the next words out of your mouth are ‘ _I’m fine’,_ I won’t be held responsible for my actions. You look like _poodoo_ , Obi-Wan. Can you even walk? I can sense you're in pain, I just want to know how bad it is.”

I don’t want to tell him anything. I’m not blind; I know how severely Anakin struggles with his emotions and control never slips further from his grasp than when I or one of his men are injured. But he is going to be leading this assault and he needs the data at his disposal. And if our positions were reversed I would be most displeased if he kept his injuries from me.

“Internal bleeding,” I concede. “Perhaps a few broken bones. Folly has checked me over.”

I decide not to mention which bones are broken. There is such a thing as too much information.

Anakin sighs and crouches. He looks older and more tired than I thought him capable. He brushes his palm over his forehead. “ _Vape it_. Was it the crash?”

“Yes.”

“How many of your men made it?”

“One.”

Anakin swallows and doesn’t reply for a moment. Then he says, “Are you out of this fight?”

The directness of his question forces me to be honest. “As much as I hate to admit it,” I confess. “Unless you can find me a blaster and prop me up on one of the tanks I doubt I am going to be of much use... I’m not certain if I can stand.”

I sense a flutter of surprise from him through the Force but it is quickly gone. “All right,” he says, and the teasing, irreverent note is back in his voice. “Somehow I’m sure we’ll manage to cope without you.”

“I’m sure you will,” I reply, dryly. “Particularly if you actually stick to the battle plan that Master Mundi and I have just devised rather than improvising or, Force-forbid, _redeploying_ yourself half-way through. At least the intention is for something to blow up this time.”

“Master, I don’t know what you’re insinuating. By the way, does your plan involve tanks?” At my affirmation, he nods. “Well then, guess I had better go and repair some, otherwise we won’t be going anywhere. Ooh, food!”

His plan is temporarily abandoned as Ahsoka arrives back with a stack of meal packs and a datapad listing the initial survey of damage to our tanks and ships. Anakin grabs the datapad and a meal pack, tears the latter open and, with obvious delight, all but sticks his face into the rehydrated protein paste pretending to be Lothlian Stew contained within. Ahsoka watches him with a kind of fascinated horror. I have never worked out if it was the hardships of Anakin’s childhood which made him both capable and willing to eat literally anything or if he just genuinely had no tastebuds. Ration packs are unpleasant but even I would admit they are far from the worst thing I’ve seen him merrily consume.

“Master Kenobi?” Ashsoka says, holding one of the packs out to me. My insides clench up painfully at even the smell of Anakin’s food so I give my head a tiny shake. I manage a few sips from the water bottle Waxer left instead; it is nearly midday now and the red sun is hot, the air dry. Despite the IV pump and fluids, I am no doubt still dehydrated from the blood loss.

Ahsoka is giving me that wide-eyed concerned look again, so I distract her by asking for a recounting of their own crash landing and fight to the drop-zone. I wince at the part where the fortifications exploded in a storm of debris and droidekas, and she and Anakin Force-threw Captain Rex off a forty-foot wall. Despite the circumstances, that sort of behaviour was just rude. I should probably admonish my former padawan about that later, when I have the energy.

The two younger Jedi inhale their food in record time and Anakin sends Ahsoka off to find a comms officer - we need to get back in touch with Yularin as soon as possible. Anakin glances at the nearest gunship from whence come the dulcet sounds of someone hammering on delicate machinery with a wrench, accompanied by a harmony of furious Mando’a curses. I nod at him.

“Just do what you can to fix as much as you can,” I say, “but we have to move by thirteen-hundred hours, tanks or otherwise.”

He pauses and looks me over again. “Are you sure you are all right?”

“I am fine, Anakin,” I reply, in exasperation. “Besides, Waxer and Boil seem to have adopted me like yet another war-torn waif so I very much doubt I shall be in need of anything for the foreseeable future.”

Anakin laughs. “You’d make an adorable tiny twi’lek,” he says. “I am just picturing your cute little _lekku_ now.” And he is gone before I can retort.

* * *

 

 

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone who gave kudos, comments or just read and enjoyed! For those that asked, Weeds is very much still alive, I just needed a short mental reset before I head back into it.  
> Big love.


	3. Part 3

Clone trooper Sketch arrives not three minutes after Anakin departs and by now I am almost certain that there is some sort of conspiracy afoot to ensure I am not without constant supervision for more than 300 seconds in case I suddenly keel over and die.

“Sir,” Sketch holds out a datapad. “The commander sent me with this. We’ve tallied up the casualties...”

It makes for grim reading. Between the 212th, 501st and the 21st Novas, we have lost almost a third of our men to death or injury during the landing alone. Of the injured, fourteen men are injured too severely to move without proper med-evac. With a frown I skip over my own name on that list, but I am relieved to see that Trapper at least is still alive. I set about mentally adjusting our attack strategy to account for the dwindling numbers. Even after the loss of my landing crew, I had hoped that so many more would have survived.

Folly and Boil appear to check me over again, thankfully while none of my other overseers are around. Folly answers my questions about the condition of the other men somewhat distractedly while he rechecks my vitals. On my other side, Boil detaches that wretched IV pump from my arm.

“General,” the medic says, after my questions are done. “I would hope I don’t need to say this, but we all know what Jedi are like... you absolutely must remain still until the evac arrives. I really can’t stress that enough. The landing zone is secure; this fight is not a life-or-death situation any more. I don’t want to pull rank, but when it comes to the matter of your physical wellbeing, I-”

“Sergeant,” I cut him off, a slight warning in my tone. “I promise you I have no intention of going anywhere. Master Mundi, Knight Skywalker and Padawan Tano are perfectly capable of handling the remainder of this mission without me, and Commander Cody will keep them on the straight and narrow in my absence. If all you’re going to do is harangue me unnecessarily, perhaps you should return to checking on the injured troopers?”

Apparently satisfied with my obedience, the medic administers another pain shot and then scurries away without another word. I give in, just for a moment, to the temporary relief and rest my eyes as the drug weathers away at the footholds of pain like a cool stream flowing under my skin.  Perhaps I was a little brusque with Folly. He is a good medic for all that his name implies otherwise and only following his orders after all. I doubt he, Coric or Doghouse have had much time to rest in the past two hours, and I am sure there will be plenty more work for them all to do during the upcoming battle. It’s likely that few of our men will remain unscathed.

With that thought in mind, I realise time has escaped me a little, and the two hours are almost up. It is time to begin the briefing for the next stage of the attack. I send Boil off to gather the other Jedi and their commanders. The plan is a simple one, but now we no longer have men in reserve, it must go off without a hitch. I use the time to ball up and toss away the foil blanket, and generally tidy myself up as best I can. There will be no getting around giving this briefing from floor level, but at least if I can try and look like I am in command of myself then command of everything else may follow.

Anakin appears first and lets me know we now have a functioning complement of four tanks and five gunships. He and Besh have worked hard in the last two hours and I am pleased with the result. That should be enough. Ahsoka, Rex, Jet and Cody all arrive together, looking alert and ready. Boil, Waxer and Folly turn up last with Ki-Adi Mundi. The Jedi crouches down on my right; he also needs to rest his injuries, after all.

“Ahsoka, have you the map projector? Thank you.”

The padawan places the device thoughtfully on the ground rather than holding it. The projected terrain blossoms out at the level of my chest, where I can reach to point.

“We have lost a lot of men,” I begin, surveying the officers clustered around me. “A lot of good men. But despite that, we have no choice but to press on. Master Mundi and I have devised a way forward from here, and what is left of our combined forces should be enough to destroy the shield generator. Anakin, you'll need to take a small squad through the shield, as close as you can get to their gun emplacements.”

I gesture at the holographic terrain, jabbing my finger towards the heavily fortified generator. “From there, you'll be able to temporarily jam their scanners so they are unable to target the incoming tanks. Once the tanks knock out the shield, Master Mundi can bring the rest of the troops in with the gunships.”

The listening troopers nod to each other. The plan is simple enough, but the heavy burden of success is going to lie almost entirely on Anakin and Ahsoka. Once Anakin gets his troops through the shield, it is going to be a long race across open ground to get within range for the droid poppers, and the Jedi, Rex and the men will be under fire the entire time. Two lightsabers can only defend against so many blasts, no matter how expertly wielded. But there is no other choice. We have to keep Ki-Adi with the main troops on the gunships; despite his injuries, the Cerean master will be our only hope if things go wrong. And all the while I shall sit here on the scorched earth, idle and useless.

Ki-Adi stands and glances at Anakin. Anakin merely dips his chin. He, of all people, knows the danger this mission presents. He has already paid the sacrifice of blood and flesh levied by this planet. The old ‘saber scars on my shoulder and leg throb with sympathy; souvenirs of Dooku's cruelty, and reminders of the severed tendons that had then left me helpless in the red dust while the Sith Lord crippled my padawan. The sound of Anakin's screams as his arm was brutally severed will forever be burned into my memory.

Anakin himself doesn’t seem to recall the sound. He still has no fear.

“Consider it done, Master," is all he says.

The generals, commanders and captain disperse to make the final preparations with their troops, but Folly, Waxer and Boil are still hovering around me like overzealous Zataanian corpse flies.

“Folly,” I summon the nursemaids over. “I want you to go and find Doghouse. Tell him he is to remain here at the drop zone to tend the injured men, and that I want all of the injured loaded into one of the grounded transports. That way they'll at least have some cover while the main forces are off destroying that shield generator.  Waxer, Boil: you’ll be needed on the front too, but I want you to pick out five troopers from the 212th to stay with Doghouse and guard the injured. Maybe Reed and Sparker...”

I don’t need Jedi mind skills to know all three troopers are hiding groans beneath their helmets at the thought of dishing out a round of guard duty while there is a battle to be won.

“It might not be glamorous,” I reproach then, “but if the Geonosians realise we’ve left wounded troopers out here unprotected the men you choose might be all that stand between your wounded brothers and a squadron of droids.”

“Yes, sir. Understood, sir.”

The troopers salute and dash away towards the medics’ station.

From then on, there is not a moment wasted. In bare minutes from the conclusion of the briefing, Jedi and troopers mobilise with rapid efficiency.  The other injured men are carried into the hull of a grounded gunship to give them some shelter from the merciless sun and protection from attack. To my right, Cody’s chosen gunners are loading up their tanks with ammo, and further off, Ki-Adi and Commander Jet are making the final checks over their gunships. As the first tank grinds into motion, I spot Captain Rex directing the last of the 501st into the two gunships Anakin's squad will be taking to make the short jump to the edge of the shield.

It is time.

Gritting my teeth, drawing all my willpower together, I pull my knees up and shove hard against the crates at my back, forcing myself once more up to my feet. I feel a little unsteady and oddly weak, but I can stand and the pain really isn't so bad now. Perhaps I am less injured than I first thought. And if I can stand, I can fight.

Squinting a little against the sun, I set off towards Rex's LAAT.  The last thing I want is for any of my overly eager attendants to realise what I'm up to. They will no doubt make the most ridiculous fuss and demand that I remain here with the injured men. If I have timed this right there won't be any opportunity for Rex to tattle to Anakin on the other transport before we make the combat zone. Besides, Rex is a man who appreciates results. He'll recognise the necessity of another Jedi to the success of this mission.

I cross the last few metres to the transport and am close enough to feel the heat radiating off the scorched durasteel plating when Rex looks up.

"General Kenobi? Are you...all right, sir?"

"Perfectly," I answer. "There's been a minor alteration to the plan. I'll be coming with you."

Rex doesn't respond for a second and I see him glance towards the lead transport where Anakin must be. But all he says is; "...yes, sir."

Good man. I step towards the open hatch and disaster strikes.

"Master Kenobi?"

It's Ahsoka. _Kriff it._

"Master, what are you doing here?"

I sigh, and turn to face her. "Boarding this transport of course."

She doesn't look convinced. "But I thought you were too injured to fight...."

"Nonsense," I dismiss her, briefly. "I merely needed a short rest. Now go and board your own transport, padawan. We're leaving."

Ahsoka doesn't move except to fold her arms, a sure sign she's about to be utterly intransigent. I remember fondly the days when padawans did what they were told. I did.

Some of the time.

"Master, you really should stay here. I heard the medic say so. Besides, you really don't look well."

"Ahsoka, if you think I am going to-"

"Rex, Ahsoka, what's the hold up? We gotta _\- Obi-Wan!?"_

I repress a groan. Anakin has now leapt down from the second LAAT and is running over to us.

"There isn't time to have a discussion about this," I try to forestall Anakin's inevitable arguing. "Master Unduli is waiting for us to get that shield down. You need my help."

"No, Obi-Wan, we don't." Anakin is clearly impatient, but for some reason he isn't yelling and still looks oddly concerned. Despite his soft tone, I see several helmeted heads peering out of the gunship’s hatchways. The troopers must be wondering what is causing the delay, or perhaps they are just watching the unfolding drama.

"Master, what are you even doing here? An hour ago you could barely stand. And I heard you tell Folly you would stay put until the med-evac arrives."

"Well, I lied," I snap. Despite the heat of the day, there's a cold sweat on my face. I brush it away impatiently. "We've lost too many men, Anakin. You're going to be walking into a meat-grinder the second you cross through that shield."

The stench of burnt flesh inside the downed ship combine with the memory of Anakin's screams to assault my memory. My fingers close impulsively over the lightsaber hilt at my belt. "I won't let you and Ahsoka face that alone."

"We're not alone, Master," Anakin has crossed right over to me and his hand is hovering under my elbow, as if for some reason he thinks I might fall. "We've got Rex and thirty of the best 501st troopers here, and right behind us will be Cody with the tanks, and then Master Mundi and all of his troopers. Besides, we're leaving a lot of injured men and a medic here undefended. I need you to stay and look out for th-"

"I am not a child in need of a distraction, Anakin." I snap back at him. "And I don't appreciate being patronised. Don't you think I haven't already ordered a defence to be set up on the injured men?"

Anakin blinks. It is clear he hasn't thought of it at all until that moment. My former padawan: so impatient, so driven towards the end goal. He always does forget the details.

"We're wasting time," I continue. "The longer we delay, the stronger the Geonosian's defence becomes. I am going with you."

I set off towards the nearest gunship to put an end to the discussion, but suddenly my balance deserts me and I find myself stumbling sideways as all the nerves in my legs seem to go numb at once. Grips like durasteel on each of my upper arms halt an otherwise ignoble face-first collapse into the sand. The two young Jedi are trying to get me to sit down but I use Anakin's shoulder to haul myself back onto my feet.

"Take it easy, Master Kenobi...."

"Kark it, Obi-Wan, will you please stop? Just how many drugs did Folly stick you with?"

I don't answer that. I remember thinking, quite recently, that I couldn't feel much pain any more but right now something in my back is spasming like knives are being pressed against my spinal column. I'm trying to breathe, pull back my control, but my grasp of the Force seems to have gone as watery as my legs and waves of hot and cold are drowning me.

"Anakin..." I begin, but I don't know what else to say. They don't have enough men. If they need me out there... If something happens...

"Obi-Wan. You gotta listen." My former padawan is looking so earnest that I couldn't look away even if I wanted to. "You can't fight like this. You can barely walk. If you come out there with us, Ahsoka and I are going to spend the whole time hauling you back up off the ground instead of watching over our men, and that might cost them their lives. Please, stay here. Let me handle this."

I sigh, and before I am aware that I've moved or that any time has passed I suddenly seem to be sitting on the ground again. Anakin is still here but I can hear Ahsoka somewhere nearby yelling for the medics.

"Fine," I concede, almost in a whisper. "Fine. I'll stay."

Anakin is crouching in front of me, hand on my shoulder, and he does me the kindness for once not to gloat at my acquiescence. Instead, his expression still serious, he says:

"Ahsoka and I have got this covered, Obi-Wan. Trust me. You trust me, right?"

"Of course," I say, faintly. "Always. Eternally."

Anakin smiles a little at that, and stands up. "Stay here, Master. Rest. No more lying to the medics. We'll be back before you know it."

Doghouse and Sparker, two of the men remaining at Point Rain with the injured, arrive at that moment and start to fuss about me, berating and prodding and taking their infernal measurements. I ignore them for the moment and watch my former Padawan hop up after Ahsoka onto the hovering transport, his loyal troopers at his side and the planet stretched out for the taking before his feet.

"Anakin," I call out after him. "Anakin. May the Force be with you."

Anakin turns back to look down on me. "You too, Master!" He shouts, and at last unleashes that wild grin I have been expecting, eyes burning with the delight of battle. The LAAT's engines roar. The ship gives a slight shudder, rises, and speeds away across the red earth, carrying them off to war.

 

* * *

The end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally I intended to carry this through to the end of the episode or even after, but the story really came to a natural stopping place without me. Who knows, one day I might feel like writing more.


End file.
